Sanctuary
by kinnoth
Summary: When Byakuya wants, he demands. Senbonzakura x Byakuya, Byakuya x Hisana. Set before the end of the Rukia arc.


Disclaimer: Not mine

**Sanctuary **

"You," Byakuya says, "will not interfere."

The air around him is heavy with the scent of cherry blossoms. A thousand trees surround him, painted into the scenery in perfect brushstrokes, frozen in the image of perfect repose. "Do you understand?" The stillness unnerves him, though he does not let this show.

"Senbonzakura." He feels her breath, cold and sweet.

"Senbonzakura." Fingers brush across his collarbone, soft touches under his jaw.

"Senbonzakura."

And she is there, as perfect and pale as her flowers, the dawn, as the flawless white of her robe. "You called me." She speaks with gravity beyond the appearance of her years. Her head is bowed, her hands are clasped, her posture is impeccable. "You called me and I have come."

This is ridiculous.

Stop this, Byakuya wants to tell her. You will not look at me with that face; those eyes. You are as I _want_ you to be; you are _unreal_.

"If you insist." Her image flickers, and though she does not look up, Byakuya can see her face – not her face – the familiar curve of a cheekbone, the color of her lip, the crease of her eyes…

"Do not wear that face." His breath catches behind his teeth, and he feels slim hands – _not her hands_ – touch his forehead, comb through his hair. "_Senbon_-"

"Isn't this what you want?" The voice in his ear is too warm, too familiar, too _beloved_ to carry these words that she has staged upon them. "Isn't it? _Byakuya_, no; _my lord husba_-"

Byakuya feels bird-wrists crush beneath his palm. He would have never abused the real Hisana so, but this is not _her_, not this _proxy_, even though her eyes are wide, her face is pained, her tears are lucid and _compelling_…

The hands that grasp his are smooth now, white and manicured. "You're hurting me," she says, and he can hear the hardness of apathy beneath her voice. But it's her own voice now, and her own face, her own eyes muted and still and terrible. His grip tightens. She sighs. "Release me." She looks up at him from beneath the dark fringe of her lashes. She is taller than the women he is accustomed to dealing with; she can match him inch for inch. She doesn't need to look up at him, but she does; she knows what compels him best.

He ignores this. "We need to speak."

"We are speaking."

"You know of the current state of things."

"I do."

"Then you know what I must do."

"I do."

Byakuya's fingers loosen, and he hears her arms rustle against the starch cloth of her robes. Her hands remain in his. "I-" He does not hesitate, merely collects himself. "I need you to do as I say."

He does not look at her, but he knows the tilt of her head even without the sight. "If I must."

He breathes out, impatiently. "Senbonzakura-" and closes his mouth to the feel of her fingers upon it.

She catches his gaze at last, and he is frozen to her bidding. "This is your dream," she says against the backs of her knuckles. "This is as you wish it." He breathes her breath as his own.

"I do not wish this," he says hoarsely. "I wish-"

"This land reflects your heart." Her voice is lowering, like the painted clouds above them. "If you cannot deny your heart, neither can this land. Neither can I."

Byakuya feels the weight of raindrops upon his eyelids, feels the wet trail it leaves as it travels down his face and neck, feels it disappear into his dry collar. "I deny it then." His voice makes the wind howl, and the cherry trees shudder as their blossoms are stripped from them by the thousand. Her eyes do not move. "I deny it."

Her eyes are his, she is his, she is _him_, female and cunning and imperious in all the ways he is not. They are two halves, seamless reflections, peerless companions, consummate even when the pinnacle of perfection cannot be perfect if it is not whole.

Her fingers slide, follow the path of the rain. Her lips are warm as his heart, soft as the raging storm around them, and her eyes do not close, bearing upon him her false fragility, like a well cut diamond masquerading as glass.

The storm passes. There is no reminder of its existence: no blemish mars the idyll of cherry blossoms, no soft wind blows their petals across his face. She does not touch him now; her hands have returned to her sleeves, her head is respectfully bent.

"Very well, my lord," she murmurs. She bows, he nods, and she retreats, her steps gliding and demure. This can not be so easy, Byakuya knows. He waits a moment more, and she complies: "Deny _me_." And then he wakes.

Autumn has consumed his gardens in flame, and Byakuya's steps crush the colors that carpet his path. It is autumn, and his opponant approaches. The day of his reckoning draws near. He goes to battle with the taste of spring in his mouth.


End file.
